Pinky's Book Link

Friday, May 30, 2014

My father sent me an email informing me I should stop wasting my time writing about myself because not only is it excruciatingly, mind-numbingly BORING… but Niche Blogs are the only way to make any money (and that is a very important fact of life as far as Dad is concerned).

Apparently niche blogs do better than blogs about… about… stuff like what I write.

So what the hell is a niche anyway?

I looked it up and this is what I found…

-A shallow recess, especially one in a wall to display an ornament or statue.

Why would anyone want to write or read about a hole in the wall?

My sister has a hole in the wall in her kitchen (still waiting to be re-plastered) from when someone, (no-one has ever owned up) had a few too many Christmas drinks and toppled into it… but that’s not very interesting.

I suppose you could write a heap of intriguing posts based on ‘a hole in the wall’, for example;

“Things I’ve seen whilst peering through a hole in the wall.”

“How to fix a sore eye after being poked when you were peering through a hole in the wall.”

“Holes in the Wall - their Personal Stories.”

“Ten Easy Yoga Positions you can do inside your Hole in the Wall.”

“Thirteen Insane (but true) things about Holes in Walls”

“How a Hole in the Wall once Saved the World!”

“Why No-one Talks about Holes in the Walls Anymore.”

“Will Holes in the Wall ever Rule the World?”

“The Eighteen Best ‘Hole in the Wall’ Youtube Videos Ever!”

“Why Holes in the Wall are like the School Bully!”

“Nineteen Ways Holes in the Wall are Completely Overrated!”"Winter Accessories in the Hole in the Wall"

“Why Holes in the Walls are the Best Things since Sliced Bread!”

“Why Holes in the Wall are Sexy.”

“Twenty Unexpected Uses for Holes in the Wall.”

I think this was the sort of thing Dad was getting at. The options are bloody endless.

What do you think? Could I make a quick buck or should I stick to my lacklustre, narcissistic crap?

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

“Where did this come from?” I wondered out loud, pulling a box of Camembert out of my bag this morning after ferreting around for my reading glasses in the staff room.

My colleagues just stared at it in an uninterested malaise.

“Maybe you just put it in your bag when you were shopping, Pinky,” suggested Kyles, stifling a wearied yawn.

“No... I don’t even buy this brand,” I replied in bewilderment.

“Maybe it’s the menopause… and you just forgot,” said Kaz.

“It’s not the bloody menopause!” I grouched, pulling out my phone to take a photo of the mystery fromage.

“OH!” cried Adriana, one of the Grade One teachers. “Now I see your ploy, Pinky. This is just a set up for your blog. I knew your blog was a fake! Every week I read it and there’s some new sensational bloody drama. You’re just making all that stuff up.”

I couldn’t speak. My blog... a ruse? Me… melodramatic?

I shuffled off to the loo, feeling disembowelled… eviscerated.

“How could anyone possibly think I’d deliberately plant a box of cheese in my handbag for the sole purpose of garnering attention?” I huffed sitting on the toilet, trembling and injured as a baby bluebird with a brutally broken wing.

“Right that’s it! You’re on the blog!” I snapped at the complaining whistle-blower after marching out and taking her photo. ‘That’ll teach her to label me as being obsessively pre-occupied with my own personal agenda,’ I thought.

Yes... you hide your head in shame!

But I still didn’t know where the camembert came from.

I texted Scotto with shaking hands.

No enlightenment there.

I asked Sue the Librarian if she had any insight.

“It’s probably just that you forgot you put it in your bag because of the menopause,” she offered kindly.

“Maybe someone put it in your bag because they thought you might like it to go with your wine, Pinky,” volunteered Alan the P.E. teacher when I grilled him.

‘Really??’ I pondered anxiously. ‘Do that many people know about my drinking habits?’

I sat in the staffroom and debriefed my friend Lyndal, who attempted to comfort me with her wise words,

“I forget lots of things too now I’m at this time of life. It’s just menopause.”

Mmmmm... But despite all of their ageist, bloody attitudes, I know full well I did not shoplift, buy,or even lay eyes before on that damn cheese and I have no idea where it came from.

If anyone does know can you please put me out of my distressing and shocking suffering?

"Ya blog's rigged Pinky!"

And I’m NOT a drama queen!

P.S. Under NO circumstances Google "Mystery Cheese" because you won't like what you find.

Monday, May 26, 2014

I’ve been wondering what you all think of the “Moon Door”? Have you ever watched as some unfortunate knight who happened to err on the wrong side of Robin Arryn; the whiny, thirteenish year old, breast-feeding demon, is thrown through the Moon Door and hurtles to his death and secretly wished you too had a Moon Door?

Or is it just me?

These are the objects/persons I would love to mercilessly shove into the yawning abyss and gleefully watch them smash into a million pieces on the rocks below.

1. The guy who walks his two golden retrievers past our house at 5:30 am every Saturday morning triggering my Chihuahua to startle from his dreamy slumber and “BOWROWROWROWROW… BOWROWROWROWROWROW…BOWROWROWROWROW!!!!!!!” loud enough to make me bolt upright in bed, both eardrums spurting blood and heart exploding.

2. My Chihuahua.

3. The student who audaciously calls out loudly, “The cat ate my homework!” when said item is requested on Monday morning causing unnecessary and disruptive mirth in the classroom which takes ten minutes to deactivate. It does not make it an original excuse by replacing ‘dog’ with ‘cat’, nor is it slightly amusing and frankly, I wish the cat would eat him.

4. The two youthful gym guys at the supermarket who accost me at the door every day with their free introductory membership offers. I avert my eyes to the ground; I swerve swiftly around the donut booth, skulking on bended knees to avoid being seen, I pretend to be having an animated conversation on the phone… but they always manage to somehow position their pearly whites up in my face and harangue me until I scamper away clutching the pamphlets and promising earnestly to look over them carefully.

5. The person who decided cheap waxed toilet paper frugally delivered in one sheet rations at a time in workplaces was a practical and economical idea.

6. The people on television cooking shows who carry on like it’s an art form. It’s food! It gets eaten! Gone forever… no art!

7. My lap top when out of the blue it tells me, “He’s dead Jim!” It scares the hell out of me. Who’s Jim? Who’s dead? I just want to hurl the evil machine down the Moon Door!

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Poinkers. Meet the Poinkers. They're the modern Phone age family. From a town in Queensland, They're a page right out of history.

Let's ride with the family down the street. Driving in the muggy, tropic's heat.

When you're with the Poinkers you'll have a yabba dabba doo time. A dabba doo time. You'll have a gay old time.

Now that Pebbles Poinker has her licence she’s finally able to pay us back for all the lifts we gave her over the last seventeen years.

It was the beginning of Fred (Scotto) Poinker’s birthday celebrations yesterday so we grabbed a lift from her into the city. I sat white-knuckled, gripping the back seat as Pebbles took the corners like Michael Andretti careening through the chicanes at the Grand Prix.

I tried to keep my mouth shut for a change not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I’d like to think she was only driving in such a fashion because she was in a hurry to get rid of us and go see her boyfriend, Bam Bam. But I suspect she always drives like a maniac what with only one point left on her licence and all.

The birthday boy’s first request was that we stop for a pre-lunch drink at the infamous Yacht Club. No sooner had I settled comfortably with a nice glass of wine when suddenly I appeared to be wearing it.

Fred, with his appalling depth perception had knocked my entire glass all over my shirt.

As I squelched off to the ladies room to wash it out I heard one of the salty barflies quip, “Hope it’s not ya first date mate!” Raucous laughter ensued.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

It’s that time of year when teachers at our school are
required to nominate their preferred grade of teaching for 2015.

“Thought I might try out teaching Prep next year,” I
commented nonchalantly in the staff room this morning.

My colleagues, Rach and Kyles, stared back at me like a
couple of stunned mullets. The silence was palpable.

“You wouldn’t cope,” spluttered Rach.

“You don’t have the patience, Pinky!” squawked Kyles choking
on her tea.

“How would you know?” I demanded, outraged they would think I
lacked the serenity and fortitude to handle a class of five year olds. The
Preps would love me!

Later on I quizzed two of my favourite teacher aides, Donna
and Carmen, who’ve both spent a lengthy sentence of incarceration in Prep and
might be a bit less judgmental than those other two bitter crones.

“It’s pretty demanding, Pinky,” they both conferred. “They don’t leave
you alone for a second.”

“Do they… you know… have accidents?” I enquired cautiously.

Donna and Carmen glanced at each other furtively.

“Not much,” they murmured, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

It seems to be quite a monumental decision to switch from
teaching ten year olds, so… I’ve weighed up the pros and cons below.

Pros:

I should be able to handle the mathematical concepts in
Prep.

You know... one plus one equals two.

Preps are cute in their own funny little strange way.

I can dress down (even more) for work what with all the
finger painting and clay modelling and all.

They’ll have the crusts cut off the sandwiches in their
lunch boxes and I love sangers with the crusts cut off.

I’ll be able to join them in their afternoon nap every day.

I will be able to expound my knowledge about things I know
nothing of and they won’t remember what I said, dob me in to their parents and
make me look like a fool.

Monday, May 19, 2014

After the recent Budget was delivered last week, it occurred to me that belts need to be tightened around this household.

These are my strategies and I hope you find them useful.

1. Firstly, I’m going to sell my husband’s beloved skateboard collection. He’s not going to miss them if I take one deck off the wall a week and flog it off at Cash Converters.

Besides, as I've been telling him for ages, he’s too old for that sort of rubbish.

2. We’ll save electricity by not watching the telly anymore. We’ll find something else to do, like throw pebbles into a jar, play hopscotch, or sit on the front lawn and count how many red cars drive past.

3. We’re all going to have to drink more water. It’s very filling so we’ll save unnecessary expenditure on pointless things like food. Although water’s low on fibre, it’s full of fluoride which is excellent for your teeth and bones.

4. Of course we’ll have to live in the dark to save on power bills. Everyone looks more attractive in the dark and as I won’t be able to afford makeup that’s a plus.

5. I’ll steal other people’s lunch at work. Some of those people at work eat far too much anyway. Surely they won’t miss the odd yogurt going missing.

6. Naturally, from now on I’ll only give homemade presents. I've always wanted to get back into knitting anyway.

7. I’ll wear a surgical mask because I won't be able to afford to get sick. As a teacher this is paramount; being surrounded by snotty nosed kids all day and all. They’re better off not seeing my facial expressions anyway.

8. Shopping around for the cheapest petrol will save me heaps. My teenagers don’t need to drive around as much as they do... and sharing is caring.

9. We can rent out our walk-in-wardrobe to a University student. Things might get a bit awkward when I go looking for my bra in the morning but I’ll be cool with it if they are.

10. It will be necessary to lower our epicurean standards. If it’s good enough for the dog it’s good enough for us.

11. We’ll look for a cheaper place to live… and save on air conditioning into the bargain.

12. I’ll read our local newspaper for cheap outing ideas. There’s bound to be some wedding/engagement/21st parties we can crash… even the odd wake perhaps.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

We were watching a movie and I wouldn't shut the hell up from the first scene until the last, about how categorically sh- sh-sh- shoddy it was.

I whinged, I carped, I nit-picked; I disparaged every line of dialogue until he snapped at me to go to sleep and keep my judgmental thoughts to myself because he was enjoying it.

But I wasn't tired... so I lay in bed beside him, flinching in pain at the movie's incompetency, quietly whispering, "Kill me now" at regular intervals and ruined any pleasure Scotto may have gleaned.

How do you know when a movie is not going to deliver what you hope it will?

Is it when you’re cringing under the blankets because of the over-the-top ‘theatre’ acting?

Could it be when an attempt at a 'comical' visual scene leaves you shaking your head from side to side and groaning in empathetic humiliation for the director?

Perhaps it’s when you hear the unrealistic scripted dialogue and suck your cold breath in through your pained teeth then sigh it all out in loud, unreserved disenchantment.

It might be when you can predict the entire plot and denouement ten minutes into the movie because the story line is a carbon copy of hundreds of other much more successfully executed romantic comedies.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

We had a little cold spell this week, which means the musty old woollies get dragged from the back of the closet where they spend ten months of every year.

“Just look at this cardie,” I complained to my hubby. “It’ll need a good shave before I can wear it.”

The look of complete confusion on his face made me realise perhaps not everybody uses a razor to get rid of pilling on jumpers, but as my sister showed me long ago, it works a treat. This in turn had me thinking of all the other wondrous and mundane things my darling sister has taught me over the years. (1)

When Pinky and I were much younger the majority of stuff she shared was on the practical side. How to feed our dog my peas under the table (2) and not get caught, how to blame our little brother for anything I might have broken and how to read under the sheet with a torch after bedtime.

Our teenage years though were a very different story.

Pretty much everyone who knows us both has heard the story of Pinky forcing me to take up smoking. She’d just started the habit, and as our mother made her drag me around almost everywhere, she quite rightly worried that I’d dob her in.

“Right,” she insisted. “If you don’t smoke this cigarette now, none of us will talk to you.”

Since these Pinky and her gal pals were the coolest, most worldly beings I knew, I was only too willing. My first cigarette was an Alpine menthol in the toilets at the Odeon Cinema in the city. (3)

I’m sure she soon regretted this as I took to it like a duck to water and spent the next few years pinching them from her hidden packs at every opportunity. (4) (She also taught me how to do a thorough search of our house for secreted objects.)

During our 20’s, Pinky moved on to teaching me more exciting things. How to throw a great party (lots of booze), how to sneak into a concert (over the fence ) (5) and how to convince your boss that you’ve definitely caught a bug not a hangover.

Are you seeing a trend here? Pinky made quite a fun teacher.

As they say, time waits for no woman, our single days were past and marriage and babies, soon to become toddlers, kids and dreaded teenagers were upon us. Pinky gave lots and lots of advice about all these things, often with an eye-roll and, as anyone who knows her will assume, a very bossy tone.

I, of course, didn’t always listen, but a better arbiter of whether a bump needed a Bandaid or an X-ray you couldn’t find. I might not have had a village around me but at least with Pinky only a phone call away, my children didn’t grow up with disfigurements.

I like to think I taught my sister a few things too but the only one I could really come up with was patience as I blundered my way through life, but I am sure we learnt a few things together.

Some of my favourites are:-

How not to hold a grudge. (6)

How to bite your tongue when you need to.

How sitting in judgement doesn’t really help anyone.

That you might as well laugh at yourself because everyone else does.

And finally, to always love and appreciate your sister. (7)

Footnotes from Pinky:

(1) Thanks Sam. In one fell swoop you've destroyed my online reputation as (and I quote one of my favourite bloggers, Lee-Anne Walker, in her famous post, "Serious... and other important trivia.") "a witty minx".

Now anyone who reads my blog will form a mental picture of a witless Pinky sitting around all day shaving woollen garments like some sad middle-aged weirdo.

(2) Yes... and my scheme worked so well until you pushed the envelope by chucking a cold slab of Mum's steamed choko under the table, the dog refused to eat it, the game was up, I got the blame and we were both sent to bed with no dessert.

(3) I truly am incredibly sorry for that Sam. Especially as it took you twenty-five years longer than me to give the filthy habit away. But in all seriousness, how was I to know you had such an addictive personality?

(4) YOU STOLE MY CIGARETTES??? Do you know how much those things are worth now? When we were kids they were only two bucks a packet... now they cost twenty! You must owe me hundreds of dollars.

I'll be around on the weekend to collect, and if you don't pay up I'll pin you to the ground and tickle you until you cry just like I did when you were five.

“Oh,” I continued on my comic roll. “Mental note; never take steroids!”

They laughed and I walked on. But as I walked away it struck me their laughter had sounded somewhat hollow, empty, forced.

Had I insulted them by insinuating their dogs were fat? I mean, you wouldn’t say that about somebody’s kid would you?

“How old is your son? Five!!! Cripes my son is five as well but he’s a third of the size of your bruiser! Likes a bit of a chow down, does he? It must cost you a fortune in food to feed that little porker!”

No. You would never say that.

It’s different with babies.

You aren’t allowed to make comments like, “Good grief, what an ugly little face your baby has!” or “Would you take a freakin’ look at the ears on that baby. He’ll be able to fly before he can walk!” even if it is the honest truth.

But you are permitted to squeeze the baby's chubby thighs and make a smart alek remark about how much more appealing cellulite is on a three month old than on a forty-five year old woman.

The mothers love to hear how fat their babies are. It’s a badge of honour for insecure new mums proclaiming to the world what excellent breast feeders/nurturers they are.

I can honestly say I’ve never carelessly informed a person they’ve put on weight.

There have been enough times in my life when I’ve suffered the sharp sting of an insensitive, rude buffoon commenting on my frequent bouts of fatty boombah-ism to know better.

Most people are quite well aware they've put on a bit of beef. They don't need anyone else to remind them.

But what about telling someone their dog is fat?

My mother, who is never backward in coming forward, becomes highly defensive when I grab a fistful of fat from her Cocker Spaniel’s back and ask her if the dog is eating up my inheritance in dog food.

“She hardly eats a thing! She can't help it. It’s her metabolism.” Mum will declare protectively. Meanwhile this dog, Millie, is afraid of having her photograph taken because of a bad experience when the police took her into custody and took Identikit photos after catching her in the act of stealing the neighbour’s chickens.

Spoilt Mutt.

Perhaps a middle of the road approach is the way to go… diplomacy not judgement.

Something along the lines of-

“Millie is looking so well! The fuller face suits her. Has she been on a holiday cruise or something? Something’s agreeing with her anyway!”

Got to preserve my share of what’s left of the inheritance somehow I suppose.

Has anyone ever told you you've put on weight?Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

I could still breathe so thankfully it’d gone down the right hole BUT it felt as though it was still stuck in my throat. You know those photos on the Internet of anacondas that have greedily ingested a large sheep? That's what it felt like.

I spent the twenty-five minute drive home desperately attempting to manufacture saliva, swallowing over and over in an attempt to move it along a bit.

I drove past the hospital and almost swerved off the exit.

‘What if it’s irrevocably attached itself to my food pipe?’ I panicked. ‘Will I never be able to swallow anything again? Will the food I eat just keep backing up on top of the gum and I’ll just keep regurgitating it?’

As soon as I arrived home I quaffed a huge hunk of bread and chased it down with a hot cup of coffee making sure to take extra-large gulps. But I could still feel the stubborn ball firmly adhered to my delicate trachea.

I charged full speed upstairs to my trusty laptop and, all in a fluster, typed in “What happens if chewing gum gets caught in your throat?”

The answers Google afforded ranged from things like, “It can’t get stuck because of the slippery mucous membranes in your throat", "It will pass through your stomach and bowels like a corn kernel" to “You’ll be able to blow bubbles out of your clacker.”

The answer that worried me the most though was,

"The only possible complication may be if you happen to have a hairy bum”

So… it appears there’s only one thing left to do my friend… I’m off to shave my bottom.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

The request was, my five kids all gather at 12:00 pm and supply lunch for their Mum on Mother’s Day.

Only rule was that I was doing NOTHING!Thaddeus (24), was the first to arrive with a bottle of Champers tucked under his arm, paying homage to his precious mother on this, her one special day of the year.

Lulu (17), who’d slept here the previous night, had already presented Pinky with a floral arrangement and was busy texting the others to enquire about their tardiness.

“Who’s that on the TV?” asked Thaddeus pointing to the big screen playing music clips.

“Karen Carpenter,” I replied quickly. I love it when I know something they don’t.

“You know… if Mama Cass had shared her sandwich with Karen Carpenter it could have saved two lives!” quipped Thaddeus.

“That’s a terrible thing to say Thaddeus!” I remonstrated. “I never eat ham sandwiches in bed anymore after what happened to poor Mama Cass!”

“You know that’s a myth, Mum,” he continued authoritatively. “She died of a heart attack. It had nothing to do with a ham sandwich.”

“Yes it did!” I argued. “She choked on a ham sandwich!”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Mother,” he remarked.

Ah… I thought. It seems the student has become the master.

We were interrupted by a lanky Hagar (21), sauntering in, plonking himself on the couch, thrusting a bottle of red wine at me and proffering a kiss on the cheek.

We were all starving so Lulu popped some garlic bread in the oven. Where were those other two boys? They were almost an hour late.

Finally Jonah (23), and Padraic (19), arrived and Lulu began to order pizzas on her laptop.

“I can smell garlic bread burning!” I commented quietly, making not a move to retrieve the blackening crusts from the oven. It was my day and I was doing nothing; niente, nada.

No one else made a move except for a reluctant Scotto who was disinclined to leave his self- constructed and recently reinstated Pinball machine in the corner of the lounge.

“Sit down Scotto!” I barked. “I’m not your mother.”

The boys all turned and stared at Lulu.

Did I really raise these chauvinists?

“Lulu put it in the oven. So one of you guys should get it out and serve it!” I chastised.

“You should always finish what you start,” drawled Hagar, staring pointedly at Lulu.

We all sat silently sniffing the smouldering garlic bread… a Mediterranean standoff if there ever was one. The boys were motionless, staring at the TV, not blinking… not breathing.You could have cut the tension with a pizza wheel.

Huffing in exasperation, poor little Lulu snapped the laptop shut and flounced out to the kitchen.

‘Good luck with finding wives you guys,’ I thought to myself.

She then collected their ten buck contributions and floored it up to the pizza shop returning about twenty minutes later laden down with greasy boxes.

Like a float of crocodiles ripping into an unsuspecting wallaby unobtrusively drinking at the riverbank, the claws snapped at the boxes until all that was left were two sad shrivelled slices of barbeque chicken.

Then, before I could say, ‘pan-fried pepperoni’ the boys were standing up feeling in their pockets for their car keys and bidding me a hasty farewell.

Oh well. At least there were no barneys this year. And I actually loved every minute of it.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

We spent yesterday afternoon in the classroom busily creating loving tributes to Mum… well, my students did, whilst I sat at my desk cutting out pictures of flowers from old Women’s Weekly magazines for them to stick on to their cards.

I don’t trust them to do it you see. Little Darius or Aloysius, always seeking a cheap thrill, are likely to find a picture of a lingerie model, draw massive nipples on it and go around showing everyone inciting shocked pandemonium in the classroom.

A few of the kids sat staring into space scratching their small heads.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Miss Waddlington-Dandy,Summerdayes Girl’s College for Eloquent Young Ladies,Articulate Road,Toff Hill.

Dear Miss Waddlington-Dandy,

I am writing to express my ardent interest in successfully applying for a teaching position at your refined and well-designed all-girls’ college.

Please allow me to convey how comfortably and quickly I would acclimatise to teaching placid, sophisticated young ladies as opposed to the fear and shocks of teaching in the confines of a classroom filled with rowdy and overly energetic ten year old boys.

I can easily picture myself wandering through your verdant grounds, reciting Wordsworth, accompanied by a small group of captivated pinafore-wearing ingénues.

After a long leisurely stroll we would come to rest under an old gum tree and quote our favourite poetic lines from the Romantics at one another until, giggling and delicately perspiring in our white petticoats, we’d settle down to penning sonnets in our embroidered journals.

I cannot imagine even one of the young ladies dropping a ‘silent but deadly’ in the middle of our English lesson producing such an overpowering pong the rest of the class is wildly disrupted; urgently scattering in twenty-five directions with noses pinched and vociferous howls of objection.

The other girls wouldn’t then feel it was necessary to emulate the protagonist by forcing out excess, distasteful wind for the sole purpose of entertaining their fellow students would they?

The joke would not continue after lunch when a select few have refueled their capacity to manufacture the excess wind after eating cheese sandwiches and party pies with tomato sauce would it?

When gliding gracefully into the classroom clutching their satin-ribbon geography books, the Mademoiselles would never put each other in a headlock; tackle their victim to the floor and roll around screaming out things like, “Skylanders rule!” would they?

My charming young pupils would not dream of sneaking a collection of three hundred collector’s cards into their mathematics lesson and play with them under the desk instead of listening to their dedicated tutor waffle on about lines of symmetry I’m sure.They'd be too enthralled in my dulcet tones.

With these matters in mind, I reiterate my desperate plea that you might consider me for the upcoming position of teacher in your highly esteemed institution and I dearly look forward to hearing back from you.

Please note; I gave birth to and reared four boys of my own. I feel it is time for a reprieve.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

The streets here in my suburb are plagued with the living dead. Large groups of raucous, staggering teens walk in a cluster, howling spontaneously with frightening ferocity and causing every dog in the neighbourhood to respond with aggressive objections of their own.

The girlie zombies; with their bum cheeks enjoying the crisp breeze and their flat unspoiled midriffs on display are tripping along with the identically singleted and cargo-short wearing boy zombies. The boys with a beer stubby in hand and the girls a vodka cruiser, are headed in one direction only; their sole purpose… self-annihilation at the music festival down the road.

I can’t say I blame them for the rebel cry.

It’s tough being a teenager these days. The price of the entrance ticket and drinks are extortionate… they have to get wasted before they get there even though it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.

They’ll be searched at the gate by the fascist bastards on security so they’ve stuffed a vodka filled hip flask snuggly amongst the tackle in their jocks.

A few will be there for the music, but many will be there with the sole intention of intoxicating their bodies until they’re so smashed they won’t remember anything about the day. Too bad that a huge proportion are underage; there are plenty of older kids to buy the alcohol for them.

I hate this time of year when I watch my boys transform into driven, obsessive zealots with the single-minded ambition of going bat shite crazy with the other horde of thousands, thumbing their noses at us… the parents, the establishment.

“You don’t have to be stupid with your drinking you know!” I said to my nineteen year old son and his mate as I drove them to a pre-festival gathering.

“Anyone can get drunk. It’s not a skill. Pace yourself. You can stay at a happy level all day and enjoy yourself without ending up in hospital having your stomach pumped believe it or not.”

I may as well have been addressing my sermon to the bottle of sunscreen on the dashboard. I watched him wolf down a Bacon De-luxe from Hungry Jacks, thankful he’d at least put a lining on his stomach.

I love my son; he’s a good boy with a kind heart and a generous nature.

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